


Off-Duty Memoirs

by MyckiCade



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen, Internal Ranting, M/M, Spoilers: Season Two, unhealthy drinking habits, workaholics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:13:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18716848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: There's a resignation on the tip of his tongue, his fingers, itching to be penned out, and shipped off to headquarters. Signed, sealed, delivered.





	Off-Duty Memoirs

**Author's Note:**

> This is about, ah... Four years old, now? I want to say that it was (mostly) written in the wake of the S2 finale. Yet, I swear to nothing.
> 
> I'm so far behind, on this series, it's unreal. I don't even remember how much of this is canon. No joke.
> 
> Part of my crusade to clear out my folders of un-posted material. I hope that you enjoy your read.

The second glass of scotch disappears, without Gordon's acknowledgement, a third soon being poured, finger after finger, with a harsh impatience. He's halfway through the liquid, when his internal rant - which has officially been raging for about half an hour - takes an ugly turn.

_Fuck it._

No, really. Fuck it. That's all he has in his head, at the moment. Fuck his job, and fuck the politics that govern the _god damned police department._ It's a wonder that he doesn't need an Act of Congress, in order to take a piss, what with his every other move being dictated and micro-managed, down to the very last details. Trying to keep up with it, it's a fucking nightmare. He hasn't had so many headaches in all his life, as he has, since returning to Gotham. If deployment had shot his nerves, the GCPD set fire to the remains, and he was left to wave to the ashes like a fucking tool.

Really. _Really._

Now, call him crazy, but, Jim is pretty sure that his current predicament is bullshit, top to bottom, cover to cover. He's responsible for his fair share of the criminals taken off the street, and dumped into Arkham, in the last year. He's feeding the political nonsense, earning the city its own form of notoriety. (He knows he is. He has the fucking paperwork to back _up_ the paperwork). The formula practically writes itself. Bad guys off the street means a happy mayor. A full prison at least makes it _look_ _like_ they know what the hell they're doing. Not to mention, the healthy government kickbacks that must come with every loon in the joint packed to the gills with medications. Well, when the prisoners aren't too busy, you know, breaking out, and causing chaos. Chaos leads to manhunts. Manhunts lead to tax payer dollars disappearing, faster than the Commissioner can blink. And, _that,_ dear children, is where Jim gets his ass chewed out.

There's a resignation on the tip of his tongue, his fingers, itching to be penned out, and shipped off to headquarters. Signed, sealed, delivered. _Blow me._ If only it would be so simple. The thought drives down a few more swallows of scotch. He's stuck, no matter what he does. He won't leave the GCPD, and he knows it. To watch the City continue to fall to ruin, while all he can do is sit and watch... Well... Vigilante justice, aside, he doesn't much like the idea of being that powerless. And, yet, to be fair... To be fair, there isn't much difference between watching from the sidelines, and trying to uphold the law with his hands tied to his dick, now, is there?

* * *

Even Harvey wouldn't be able to deny it, y'know, wherever his sorry ass has gone off to, this time. That's not even a fair statement, and Jim knows it. Harvey is well within his rights, getting as far away from Gotham as he can. In the same situation, Jim isn't sure what to say that he would do. It's... debatable, at best, and that is being optimistic.

Heh. Imagine if he could ever find it in himself to be a pessimist?

Shuffling through the countless number of useless channels that cable television has to offer, Jim sighs to himself. This is what he has been reduced to? _Really?_ A liquid dinner, and infomercials. Christ. The life of the career bachelor just doesn't cut it, some nights, but, then, he doesn't know what else to do. It's not as if he can just manifest a wife out of thin air. He doesn't even need the perfect wife - he'll settle for a _sane_ one, thanks! - just, someone to spend his nights with. The mornings. The little moments. Someone who can handle what he does, what he needs to do to get it done, someone who isn't going to go _bat shit crazy,_ at the drop of a hat. Love, honor, and - okay, he's totally with the times enough to nix the 'obey' portion. And, _Jesus Christ,_ playing that back in his head, he really _is_ looking for the perfect wife. He has a better chance of catching Alfred Pennyworth with his shirt untucked.

Jim snorts a laugh, before setting his glass to the side. If he's put wives, and Alfred in the same train of thought, it's time to call in the clean-up crew, post-derailment.

There's a headache playing behind his eyes, one he's managed to ignore for the last year or two. By this rate, he figures, if it hasn't killed him, it's probably safe to say that it's nothing to worry about. And, should it turn out to be, well, he's done his best. For his career, he means, of course. Not for his health. Because, be reasonable, there is no way to spin being a member of the Gotham police force into a health conscious decision. It's just a one-way ticket to one of two places: a jail cell, or a coffin.

He isn't really even all that sure which would be worse. He used to think he did.

* * *

Nightmares are the easiest part of the job. At least, when he opens his eyes, those particular horrors go away.

* * *

December is half-way through, before the Galavan trial gets an official date. It'll be another three months, something else for the bastard's defense team (an entire fucking _team_ ) to bitch about, due process, and all that noise. Jim hopes for a conviction, but, he knows better. The best outcome he truly sees is a slap on the wrist, and Galavan will disappear, quietly, back into the haze of obscurity that he had once risen from. The mayor certainly isn't going to grow a set, and see his captor through to a cell in Arkham.

There's a pile of paperwork on his desk that he can barely see over, which really should be commanding his attention. Truth is, he doesn't have a rat's ass left to give over it. He's tired, worn out, ready to throw in the towel. Done. But, he won't. He'll soldier on, as always, swallow down a couple of aspirin, and ignore his almost-hangover. It's just too bad that he can't take the day along with it.

* * *

Some nights, if he can't shake the daylight out of his mind, away from his bones, Jim goes for little walks. It's a silly thing to do, especially in such a dangerous city, or, so his mother would tell him. The amount of trouble he can find on the streets only increases, at night, because of the less seasoned criminals - the newbies, Harvey had always called them. The kids that want to test their own limits, under the safe cover of darkness. It's hardly what James would call threatening, by any stretch of the imagination.

And, so, he walks.

Jim doesn't get up to too much, on these little ventures. There may be a little drag to his feet, begging to be a target for any mugger who didn't recognize his face. (Or, maybe, for one that did, and felt he had the balls to go ahead with it, anyway).

Tonight, the streets seem just as busy as any other. There are working girls hanging by the shop fronts, shivering against the slight chill in the air. It's not yet cold enough to see breath, but, with what little the women are wearing, it's not a wonder that the night breeze is hitting them, harder. Just beyond them, lurking around down the alleyways, the nightly dealers keep to the shadows, waiting for their next customers. Therein is the difference, Jim thinks, with a grimace, between those who worked for their own gain, and those who were forced to work for someone else. If the girls don't earn, there will be trouble. The dealers need only to watch out for their own asses. Greedy bastards.

There's a cemetery, just up the road from the local public high school. He's chased more kids out of that cemetery, than he thinks attend classes, on a daily basis. If anything, he hopes that the little acts of defiance, especially from those children who claim not to be learning anything in school, are just sparks for the future. That these kids will pick themselves up, and get the hell out of Gotham, if only long enough to be inspired to come back home, and make a difference, the way that he had. There's just the smaller part of him that knows better, that hopes those lucky few who get out, never bother to come back.

Tonight, the cemetery is rather quiet. The trees are swaying with the breeze, leaves rustling, gently. There isn't another person in sight, warm, or otherwise, for which Jim is irrationally relieved. He's in no mood for people, not of the breathing variety. Not tonight. To be perfectly honest, he is only just now aware that the departed are on his list, for the evening. And, while he's here...

There is only one person in this cemetery with any tie to him, that he is aware of. Only one that he will come by to say hello to, anyway. He has to pass through row after row, careful of where he treads, around the individual plots. It's not the nicest of cemeteries, really, and certainly not the most well-cared for. Even in the darkness, Jim can see that the grass is in need of mowing, several stones left unreadable behind a curtain of overgrown lawn. Flowers, for the few graves that have them (mostly of those who served, as marked by tattered flags, left from Veteran's Day), have gone dry, for lack of water. It hasn't been the most rain-filled of autumns, and, soon enough, the remnants of peonies and geraniums will be a memory, under a blanket of white snow. It is a sorry sight, to be sure, one that tugs at Jim's gut, in an uncomfortable fashion. It could so very easily be him before one of those headstones, beneath the dirt, forgotten, right along with the flowers.

If there would be any, to begin with. He shivers, and continues to move forward.

He stops, a few feet in front of the headstone he's been seeking. Another life, gone. An innocent life. Another of his finest failures. He doesn't apologize. He _can't._ There are no words to give to the dead, to ease the reality. Jim can only make himself feel better. He doesn't deserve to feel better. Certainly, not about this.

Crouching down, he inspects the lettering, before reaching forward, to brush away some debris that has gathered by the base of the stone. It's not much, some leaves, and twigs. Jim refrains from pulling back the grass, but, only barely. Clumps of up-turned dirt won't look very nice. She deserves it to look nice. Well, as nice as it can be.

"Evening, Ma'am," he greets, quietly, at long-last. His tone is uneven, bothered, and he can't disguise it, for the life of him. (And, doesn't _that_ sound ridiculous? Hiding, from a dead woman). Looking around the cemetery, again, Jim frowns. "I'll see if I can get the City to send someone in, and clean this all up... It's certainly not their finest work." He sighs. "Or... I can call Oswald. I'm guessing he hasn't been around, recently, either." The lack of care is a big hint. Jim expected pristine conditions, not... this. "But, he's not been taking it so well. I can hardly blame him."

He goes on, about Oswald, about Gotham... What's become of Gertrude's neighbourhood. His job. No apologies, though Jim feels one burning at the back of his throat. Just a few minutes of one-sided conversation, as the cold wind picks up speed. A terrible night to be out here, really, but it doesn't stop him. He talks. And, talks.

Some kids run by the gate, screaming, and laughing. It breaks through the concentration Jim hadn't realized he'd formed, bringing to his notice the aching of his legs, and the cold of his extremities. With a small smile, he eases his way to a standing position, knees protesting the stretch. More minutes have gone by, now, than he'd intended.

"Have a good night, Ma'am," he says, in parting. "I'll be back, soon."

Jim turns, and makes his way back toward the gate. As he leaves the cemetery, he feels lighter. Jim Gordon feels at peace.

* * *

He calls Oswald, the next morning. By the time he pays Gertrude another visit, her resting grounds are impeccable.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and chat with me, on Tumblr, @myckicade.


End file.
